The Power of Two
by Kristen Elizabeth
Summary: The children of the Fourth Age of Man: will they live in the peace their parents fought to give them, or will they too be called to defend Middle Earth?
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this story were created by Tolkien, master of all that is Middle Earth. However, a few of them come from my own brain, inspired by him, of course. I'm sure you will know the difference.  
  
Author's Notes: Well, the majority asked, and the majority shall recieve. This story is a continuation of my first LotR story, "A Love Beyond All Fear." It would help to read that one first, but it isn't totally necessary. Because so many people seemed to enjoy it, I decided to go ahead and tell the story of the children. I hope you like it as much. Don't worry, the original characters will make plenty of appearances. Happy reading! And many thanks.  
  
Dedication: For my father, who thought LotR made wonderful bedtime stories for his children, and is therefore the source of whatever creativity I possess.  
  
****  
  
The Power of Two   
  
by Kristen Elizabeth   
  
****   
  
"Do you intend to rise anytime time soon, sister, or shall I be forced to invent an excuse for you, rather than tell Mother and Father that you stole away from the house late last night to go riding, and did not return until dawn?"   
  
A head of hopelessly tangled blond curls poked out from underneath a woven quilt. Mustering up the most withering scowl that her tired, bloodshot eyes could manage, Edoawen of Ithilien snapped back, "You would like to, wouldn't you?"   
  
"You know that is not true." Her twin, Elioclya, was putting the finishing touches on her own flaxen locks, although they were immaculately groomed, pulled away from her beautiful face in perfect braids tied with ribbons that matched her pale blue gown. Once she was done, she put her hands on her hips. "Although it is true that I take no pleasure in covering up your misadventures."   
  
Abashed, Edaowen fought her way out from under the warm covers of her bed. "It is not fair. You have no secrets that I could keep for you…in exchange for your silence about mine."   
  
"I have never let slip your secrets." The youngest of the pair sat on the edge of her sister's bed with all the grace of the Elven Queen Arwen. "And I never will."   
  
"I know." Edoawen sighed heavily. "Of course, if I were Elboron, there would be no need to keep any secrets. When he lived in this house, he came and went as he pleased, no matter what the hour or in whose company he happened to be. And I am certain he does all that and more in Minas Tirith." She paused. "With Prince Elboron."   
  
Elioclya tilted her head to one side, studying her sister. It was like staring into a looking glass. At seventeen years of age, the twins had grown into great beauties with their waist-length golden hair that reminded everyone of their mother, but with the soulful eyes of their father. They were absolutely identical, down to the small beauty marks beneath their right eyes, just below the dark fringe of their lashes.   
  
Yet there had never been any trouble identifying which girl was which, at least not for those who knew them at all. Their physical appearance was exactly where they ceased to be at all similar. Where Elioclya was everything a lady was brought up to be, Edoawan prided herself on the fact that if it weren't for her slender body, long hair and feminine features, she could pass for any well-trained soldier.   
  
"Do you truly envy our brother? He bears many burdens, not the least of which will be our father's title upon his passing. I should not like that responsibility."   
  
"I might," Edoawen replied, her scowl reappearing. "But it will never happen. Even if…" She stopped and placed her hand over her heart for a moment. "…Valar forbid…something were to happen to Elboron, there is still Théodan."   
  
Elioclya smiled at the mere mention of their other brother, the youngest of the offspring of their parents, Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and Lady Éowyn. The nearly fifteen year-old boy held a special place in her heart as he was her only younger sibling, and therefore the only one she felt ever looked up to her. "He is tremendously excited about the journey to Minas Tirith. You would think he had never seen the White City."   
  
"Please do not remind me about this," Edoawen groaned. "I had hoped to talk Father into allowing me to stay behind, but Mother said going was a duty and I could not escape it."   
  
"I confess, I am glad. I am quite looking forward to having our entire family reunited. Even if it means you shall have to suffer a bit." Her twin stood, and Edoawen couldn't help but notice that there was not a single wrinkle in her beautiful gown. Had it been her, the material probably would have caught a loose nail in the bed frame and ripped to the point of indecency. It was for this reason exactly that she wanted to stay in her family's comfortable home in Emyn Arnen where she could get away with wearing men's clothing. In Minas Tirith, she would be in the company of Elessar-king's family and court, as well as those of her mother's brother, Éomer, King of Rohan and various noble families of both countries.   
  
In short, she would have to wear a dress and keep it clean. Every day.   
  
Over the years, the twins had come to a mutual agreement that whenever Eliocyla attempted to help her sister adjust to the life at court that she hated so much by teaching her what she knew about etiquette, small talk, hairstyles and dance steps, Edoawen would invariably pretend to pay close attention, while her mind wandered where it would. The same was true of Elioclya whenever her twin talked about horses, swords, archery and Ranger's skills. It served both of their purposes and did nothing to alter either their own personalities, or their deep affection for one another. Even now, as Elioclya prattled on about the banquet that was to be thrown in honor of the reunion of what remained of the Great Fellowship, Edoawen found herself planning how to avoid the festivities without angering her parents.   
  
"Come on," Elioclya interrupted her thoughts. "Father wishes to leave following breakfast, so that we might reach the City before sunset." She watched her sister pull herself out of bed. "Would you like my help in choosing a gown?"   
  
"Do you think I cannot choose one for myself?"   
  
Hurt colored Elioclya's expression. "I merely offered." A moment passed. "Do not be late to the table."   
  
She had just reached the door when she heard, "Clya!" Edoawen waited for her sister to turn back around. "Perhaps…you could do something with my hair? You know I have no control over it."   
  
With a little smile, her twin nodded. "It would be my pleasure."   
  
****   
  
"I have never worn one myself, but I cannot imagine it takes this long to put on a dress." From his place at the head of the dining table, Faramir, Prince of Ithilien looked to his wife. "Or is it merely the fact that we must make haste that keeps our daughters from hurrying?"   
  
Éowyn set down her water goblet and returned the look. "I have little doubt that it took much effort to rouse Edoawen from her bed, as she snuck out to go riding last night."   
  
"Again!" The little lines around her husband's eyes that aged him, but did not mar his handsome face, increased with parental fury. "I have told that girl more times than I can count that she is not to go galloping across the countryside without an escort. Especially at night!"   
  
"Would you keep her caged, my lord?"   
  
His wife's cool question calmed Faramir for the moment. "No, love. I would cage no man. Or woman." His frown reappeared. "But she is not a woman just yet, is she?"   
  
"The girls have blessed our house for seventeen summers," Éowyn reminded him. "You might wish for another seventeen to pass before you let them go, but have you forgotten one of the purposes of this visit to the White City?"   
  
"I have not forgotten." He picked up a piece of bread only to set it down again, his appetite suddenly diminished. "But I tell you, Éowyn, I care not how many titles the noblemen of Gondor or Rohan carry, if they so much as lay a hand on either of my girls…"   
  
"When Clya and Awen marry, they will no longer live with us, will they?"   
  
They had been so caught up in their discussion that they nearly forgot the presence of their youngest son. Théodan sat between them, picking at his food, but listening carefully. He was a child no more, being past his fourteenth birthday, but having been carefully shielded by an older brother, even from the short distance of Minas Tirith, and smothered by two sisters who adored him, Théodan was still, in many ways, innocent.   
  
Éowyn considered her son. He looked ever so much like his father. After passing into manhood, Elboron's looks had changed to reflect the Rohan blood that ran in his veins. But her youngest, she hoped, would always resemble Faramir. "No, they will not. And we shall miss them when they do. But it may not be for several years yet, so there is no need for gloom." She pointed to his plate. "Eat well; the journey will be long."   
  
"Several years," Faramir repeated, his fists balled up tightly. "There is no need to rush the inevitable. Besides, there are few men in the land who can take on our Awen." The statement was spoken with pride, but when the girl in question overheard her father as she and her twin paused on the stairs, out of sight, it sounded quite different. "Although we might say goodbye to Clya too soon, I suspect we shall have Awen around for years to come."   
  
Elioclya glanced at her twin. Her hair was combed and pulled back at the sides and her dress was neat for the moment; she looked every bit a princess. Only she, having shared the same womb with her, could have noticed the slight wobble in her chin. She took Edoawen's hand. "You know Father only means that…"   
  
The wobble vanished as her twin firmly set her jaw. "It matters not. I have no intention of being married off now or ever." Edoawen flashed a weak smile. "And after all, Father is merely stating the truth. What man would have a wild woman, me, when he could have a lady…you?"   
  
"Awen, don't…"   
  
She was cut off again. "I am hungry. And tired of this conversation."   
  
Elioclya watched her sister run down the remaining steps and burst into the dining hall with the force of a summer thunderstorm. Sometimes, she wished she could be as free in her movements as Edoawen, but whenever she tried, she inevitably failed.   
  
Some women put themselves in cages.   
  
****   
  
Riding past what remained of Osgiliath was always painful for Faramir, a fact of which his wife was well aware. As their riding party approached their final destination, Éowyn urged her horse ahead to catch up with her husband. He led his own horse towards Minas Tirith, but his eyes were on the ruins of the city he had fought so hard to save.   
  
"I wish that you could see it as I do," she said, guiding her horse as close to his as she could. With one hand on the reins, Éowyn reached out for his.   
  
"Do you see something more than crumbled stone, my lady?" he asked, his voice blowing in the strong wind. "Something more than failure."   
  
She squeezed his fingers until he was forced to turn his attention to her. "For me, it is a monument of your devotion to your country and its people. It is not a place of failure, but of survival."   
  
After a moment, Faramir brought the back of her hand up to his mouth and kissed it through the delicate leather of her riding gloves. He released her, glancing back at the ruins. "Still, Elessar should have cleared it away years ago. It is an eyesore."   
  
"I believe he may be of the same mind as I am."   
  
"Sentimentalists," he replied, finally smiling. "Both of you."   
  
Many yards behind them, Elioclya sighed softly and shifted in her side-saddle. She enjoyed riding, if she did not have to do it for long distances. The elements were harsh, and even her heavy cape couldn't keep her completely warm. And she did not even want to consider what state her hair might be in after hours in spent in the tossing winds. Fortunately, Minas Tirith was only another thirty minutes or so away, and there would be time to correct the damage before they would be expected to appear before the King.   
  
Meanwhile, Edoawen's dread grew the closer they came to the city. The long, wonderful ride was nearly over, and she would likely not see a horse until it was time for them to depart and return home. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Minas Tirith was a very large place which provided quite a few ways for a body to lose itself for several hours.   
  
"If they do not allow you to go riding by yourself, Awen, I will go with you."   
  
She looked over at Théodan. How was it that her brother was able to know what she was thinking before she even thought it herself? He had ever been perceptive, even as a very small child. And while she had always appreciated having his tiny, but steadfast support, it was a bit disconcerting to think that she might be such an open book for him to read.   
  
"No doubt they could not deny me a ride with so valiant an escort," she told him, winking. "Thank you."   
  
"Mother and Father only fear for your safety," the boy went on. He stared blankly ahead for a moment; the empty look in his eyes sent a cold chill down her spine. "As do I."   
  
Edoawen licked her lips and shook off her apprehension. "Who is the elder here, you or I? Do not worry for me, brother. If I know nothing else, I at least know how to care for myself." Nudging her horse's sides, she galloped ahead, soon passing even her parents. Faramir called to her, but she pretended not to hear. The speed and power…the utter freedom of riding…she would not be slowed down!   
  
Her mother cleared her throat to hide her laughter. "Is her sudden enthusiasm not preferable to dragging her into the King's Hall against her will?"   
  
Faramir watched his eldest daughter, considerably less amused. "She will be the death of me."   
  
****   
  
From the significant height of the Citadel, two young men looked out over the plains that spread out around the White City. Though the approaching riders were but dark spots on the brown grasses, there was little doubt whom they were.   
  
The younger in the pair, but only by six months, smiled broadly. "Father must have been quite strict with my sisters if they left home early enough to be here now." Elboron glanced over at his companion. "Eldarion?"   
  
The Crown Prince, the eldest child of Elessar-king and his Elven wife, Queen Arwen, continued to look down upon the gates of the City, which were being opened to welcome the Prince and his family. "Hmm," he murmured.   
  
Even after two decades of friendship, Elboron never quite knew how anything he said would be received or responded to by his friend…if he would be granted an answer at all. It was the Elf in him, Elboron reasoned. Mystery and composure ran in Eldarion's blood as strongly as his masculine beauty and slightly pointed ears.   
  
Although neither of them thought much on their looks, the women of the court who happened to pass by them when they stood together invariably swooned. Where Elboron was tall and tanned, with eyes the color of a rain cloud and sun-kissed waves that hung to his broad shoulders, Eldarion was just as tall, but with fair skin, black locks that just barely brushed his collar, and a frame made up of sleek, lean muscles. His eyes were those of his mother's kind, and saw far more than his friend ever could.   
  
He was lost in the sight before him, so far down, yet so clear. Eldarion watched the younger of his friend's sisters as a guard helped her down from her horse. Loose strands of gold whipped around her face and her cheeks were pink from the cold, but she was even more beautiful than she had been the last time he saw her, nearly two years past. Princess Eliocyla of Ithilien.   
  
The woman for whose hand he wished to ask.   
  
Eldarion sensed the presence of someone approaching them long before Elboron did. He turned and confronted a face he hadn't seen in several years.   
  
"I knew you would come," the Prince said, very nearly smiling.   
  
His own eyes looked back at him, only far more aged, having seen a thousand more years than his. Legolas of the Woodland Realm nodded at his oldest friend's child. "The winds drew me here."   
  
"And the promise of praise for your great deeds mattered not?" Elboron quipped. When the two pairs of Elven eyes turned on him, he coughed. While he would never back down from Eldarion alone, the Prince of Mirkwood was another matter entirely. "My apologies, Master Elf." With a little bow, he backed away. "Excuse me. I should greet my family."   
  
"He resembles his father's brother," Legolas mused, watching Faramir's son depart. "Is his will stronger?"   
  
Eldarion replied, "It has never been tested. These are times of peace, my teacher. Have you forgotten?"   
  
"Gatherings such as this do not allow me to, even if I wished it so."   
  
The boy whom he had taught when his travels with Gimli, Son of Gloin, found him in Minas Tirith turned and looked back down at the gates. She was no longer within his sight, but at least he knew he would be seeing her again soon.   
  
Legolas stepped forward, taking Elboron's place beside him. "You have given your heart to someone."   
  
"You know this simply by looking at me?" Eldarion asked.   
  
"That…and I spoke with your father upon my arrival." The Elf, who did not look a day older than his pupil, glanced at Aragorn's son. "He tells me you intend to speak to Faramir at the banquet."   
  
Eldarion shook his head. "I wish to. But I have no intentions until I consult the lady herself."   
  
"Last I saw of her, she was quite fair. More so than many of her kind."   
  
"She is fair, yes. Fair and mortal." He closed his eyes briefly. "And I am not sure what I am."   
  
Legolas thought this over for a moment. "It is a wise man who realizes this in his youth, rather than his old age."   
  
"Ah, but I am not a Man, am I? Nor am I one of you, either." A moment passed before Eldarion moved away from the stone wall. "I should like to discover whether the lady can love me, whoever I am, and not just my title. I shall see you at dinner." Nodding at his mentor, he took his leave.   
  
The sun had touched down on the dark peaks of Mordor, coloring the countryside with various shades of reds and oranges before Legolas spoke again. "Many moons shall come and go before you find your answer, young one," he said aloud, though no one was near enough to hear him. "Is your own will strong enough to stand the test?"   
  
****   
  
To Be Continued 


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Characters within (well, most of them) do not belong to me, but to Tolkien.  
  
Author's Notes: Thanks so much for the kind reviews! I hope you enjoy this next chapter in the ongoing saga;)  
  
****  
  
The Power of Two  
  
by Kristen Elizabeth  
  
****   
  
"What have I ever done to you, sister, to deserve such torture?"   
  
"Perhaps if you had not challenged the wind itself to a race, your hair would not resemble a bird's nest now." Holding onto Edoawen's head with one hand, Eliocyla attempted to run a comb through her tangled curls, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from her sister. "I have seen you fall off a horse, only to get up, brush yourself off and try again. This cannot be anymore painful."   
  
Edoawen winced. "The ground is forgiving. You are not." Her twin pulled again. "Stop!!" She stood up and backed up halfway across the guest chamber they were sharing. "I had rather go before the King with bad hair than with a bloody scalp!"   
  
"Fine then." She was too tired to argue. Elioclya threw down the wooden comb. "Do what you will. But hurry. There isn't much time."   
  
When it became clear that her sister wasn't going to pick the comb back up and try again, Edoawen reached for it with great reluctance. By that time, Elioclya had already situated herself in front of the looking glass, delicately pinching her cheeks to color them.   
  
"I simply do not see how one's hair is done or undone can be of any importance," Edoawen said out loud. But even as she spoke, she slowly dragged the instrument down the long length of her locks. "Not as much as the way they ride a horse, or their skill with the sword, at least."   
  
Elioclya said nothing.   
  
"Do you think Elboron has a sweetheart?" she tried again, changing the subject completely. "He looked well. Happy." When this failed to get her twin's attention, Edoawen sighed. "I am sorry, sister! I did not mean to hurt your feelings."   
  
Standing, Elioclya smoothed down her silk skirts. The light blue color highlighted her eyes, and was the perfect compliment to her twin's gown of dark blue. Day and night. She fixed a cool look on her sister. "Hold still." She moved around behind Edoawen and after a few minutes, managed to braid the fly-away strands and loop them up, securing them just behind her sister's ears, creating two hoops of flaxen blond that hung past her shoulders. Elioclya stepped back to observe her handiwork; the band of woven gold across her forehead twinkled in the candlelight.   
  
Edoawen touched the identical crown on her own brow. "Sometime, just for a change, I should like it very much if when we quarreled, you would actually fight back."   
  
"What would be the point?" Elioclya asked, starting for the door. "There would be no chance of winning against you."   
  
She would have liked to start a quarrel over that, but they soon found themselves in the wide, stone corridor, being led towards the Great Hall by a servant. He stopped in front of a set of wide, white, carved doors.   
  
"Princesses, the King and his court await you."   
  
Elioclya shot her sister a cold look as if to say 'see what you did, keeping the King waiting.' The guard pushed one door open and bowed as the girls entered the Hall.   
  
Though they had visited the White City many times before, they had never been formally presented in the King's throne room. Edoawen nearly gasped at the sight of such a place. Vast and majestic, it seemed to stretch on forever, ending only at the raised steps that led up to where Elessar-king sat.   
  
**Please don't trip, please don't trip,** Edoawen silently prayed. Beside her, Elioclya floated, her slipper-clad feet making no sound against the marble floor. She set her chin and tried for the same effortless grace, but she was quite sure that as they approached the group of people gathered around the throne, she must have looked like a clomping cow next to a graceful deer.   
  
Lining the path to the head of the Hall were nameless nobles and their ladies, but as they came closer, the faces began to be more familiar. She had to lower her eyes a bit to see a few of them, the Hobbits of the Shire, who had played a role of such importance in the War that their presence was ever welcome in the world of Men. Samwise Gamgee and his brood of children even smaller than he and his wife stood along with the troublemakers she knew only as Pippin and Merry. One of her favorite memories was of the gathering when she realized she had finally passed Merry in height. With their own families in tow, the group of Halflings was considerable, yet missing one very important face.   
  
She had never met the Ringbearer himself. He had sailed for the Undying Lands as an honored guest of the Elves before her birth, but the great respect her parents, as well as everyone else gathered in the Hall, had for Frodo Baggins assured that although he was gone, he would never be forgotten.   
  
Legolas Greenleaf stood on the opposite side next to his friend and traveling companion, the Dwarf Gimli. Where one was tall, sleek and the very definition of handsome, the other was short, gruff and unrefined, which only leant to his charm. She did not know them well, as they were constantly off on another adventure through Middle Earth, but she respected them by way of being great role models. The Elf's eyes bore into her for a moment, but quickly moved to her sister where they stayed, watching her with great interest.   
  
Just beyond them, she saw her mother's brother, Éomer-king. Hand-in-hand with his beautiful wife Lothiriel, and their children, her cousins Elfwine, Glymer, Maren, and Illalian, her uncle stood proud. How different he was from her father, yet so similar, too. The main difference, she thought darkly, was that her uncle allowed her cousins Maren and Illalian to ride freely across the plains of Rohan. She'd long envied them…and they knew it. Even as she passed, Maren smirked at her. It would have been in bad taste, Edoawen decided, if she reached out and pulled the younger girl's dark blond braid.   
  
Her own family stood together to the left of the throne, smiling as their girls approached. Faramir and Elboron both wore the symbol of Gondor, the White Tree, outlined upon their dark breastplates, while Théodan was simply clad in his finest clothes. Éowyn wore a gown of white silk so pure that it challenged the very stars in its brightness.   
  
How was it, Edoawen wondered, that she could have been born of such a woman, yet inherit nothing of her beauty and grace?   
  
The right side of the throne was reserved for the King's own family. Queen Arwen stood closest, regal in her stance, unmatched in her beauty. Edoawen had never felt quite comfortable in the presence of the Queen, although Elioclya revered her. Just behind the Queen were her daughters, Elaviel, Hinia and Cebriviel. She did not know them well at all, as they simply had nothing in common.   
  
But between his sisters and his mother was the only man she'd ever looked at twice. Even now as she spotted him, her heart sped up and she almost put her hand to her throat as if to slow it. Prince Eldarion had long been in her thoughts, longer than she liked to admit. Not that she had admitted it to anyone, not even her twin. It was too great a secret. And Elioclya might smile in the condescending way she had if Edoawen admitted that she found the Crown Prince to be everything a man ought to be…strong, kind, intelligent, just, and quick with a blade. Together with his Elvish qualities that made him both beautiful and serene, he was as close to perfection as anyone could come.   
  
Therefore, he was completely out of her league.   
  
She had no more time to think about Eldarion as they reached the base of the King's throne. They were about to be presented to the court as young noblewomen of a marriageable age always were. Edoawen sighed. It was a pointless, almost humiliating ritual in her mind, but her sister had been looking forward to it for years.   
  
Elessar-king, who both the girls had known all of their lives simply as 'King Aragorn,' rose and addressed everyone gathered. "Today is happy occasion for all of Middle Earth. Not only do we celebrate another gathering of old friends from all corners of our lands, but I have been given permission by their father, Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and their mother, Lady Éowyn, to formally introduce their daughters to this Hall."   
  
He came down the stairs slowly and stopped just in front of the girls, both of whom bowed deeply before him. "Rise, ladies," Aragorn said softly. "And face my court as the princesses that you are."   
  
Together, the girls stood and turned. The Hall looked even longer from this perspective. Edoawen's skin crawled knowing that every single eye was on them, her in particular, she assumed. If she had stopped to think logically, she might have guessed that the stares and whispers were simply about the amazing resemblance between the twins, but in her mind she just knew that they were comparing her to Eliocyla…and that she was definitely coming up short.   
  
"It is my great honor to introduce the daughters of Ithilien, the Princesses Edoawen…" He placed one hand on her shoulder. "And Elioclya." As he touched her sister's shoulder, she was sure he smiled softly, affectionately. "My best wishes to all the young men out there in telling the two apart."   
  
There was light laughter at this and applause when the King stepped back and the presentation was complete.   
  
Edoawen couldn't help but glance over at Prince Eldarion. He was neither clapping nor smiling. But he was watching them. Or more specifically, he was watching her sister.   
  
Just like everyone always had.   
  
****   
  
"Are you not eating, sister? You cannot have some silly notion in your mind that you need to watch your figure, can you?"   
  
Elioclya looked up from her mostly-full plate and smiled weakly at her older brother. He sat beside her at the long table, feasting happily on the endless platters of roasted meats and fresh breads. "I do not," she assured him. "I simply have no appetite tonight."   
  
"Edoawen does," Elboron pointed out.   
  
On his other side, his other sister stuck out her tongue, not caring who saw. "If you imply that I eat like a horse, brother, perhaps you should mind the manner of your own consumption first!"   
  
He gestured with a chunk of cheese in his hand. "Your manners are impeccable. It is your desire to keep your mouth full of food, rather than engaged in conversation that I noticed. Do you not care to talk to any one of the many men here?"   
  
Her eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting that I throw myself at the feet at some noble's son and pretend to be fascinated by his…" She paused. "…sword?"   
  
The innuendo did not escape Elboron and he nearly choked. "By all things mighty…is there not one drop of woman's blood in your veins, sister?!"   
  
"Enough." Elioclya spoke softly, but firmly, breaking up the argument as she had done so many times before. "People are staring. And Father will not be pleased if his children make a spectacle of themselves at the King's table."   
  
Even though she sat back and said no more, as Edoawen plopped a fat date into her mouth and chewed, she stared at her sister with silent contempt. Eliocyla ignored her and sipped her wine from a silver goblet. Her sister was always upset about something; if she bothered to find out what every little trouble was, she would spend her entire life worrying about things that did not even matter.   
  
What mattered at the moment was the fact that since they had all sat down to feast, Eldarion's eyes had not left her except when he was spoken to and his attention was required elsewhere. Always though, he would look back at her when the conversation was through; she found herself almost looking forward to it. There was nothing disturbing in the way he looked upon her. Rather it made her feel singled out. Special. She swallowed. Wanted.   
  
For it was a look of desire that he gave her, and she needed none of his Elvish intuition to know it. Not even her lack of experience could keep her ignorant of what lay in the Prince's stare. It did not frighten her, however. Rather, it warmed her at the same time it made her stomach twist and turn. It was for that reason that she could not eat. But she doubted her brother would have cared to hear that. Although he was great friends with the Prince, Elioclya did not think he would like to know just how penetrating Eldarion's stare was.   
  
She was snapped out of her thoughts by the King's voice. Eldarion glanced at his father, too, but quite reluctantly.   
  
"Faramir, friend, you seem distracted," Aragorn said to her father. "What troubles you at my table?"   
  
Before he could reply, Gimli slammed down his mug of mead with a raucous laugh. "Perhaps it is knowing that there's nary a young man's eye here what is not trained upon his daughters."   
  
"What of the King's own daughters?" Legolas, ever on a quest to verbally spar with the shorter warrior, asked him. "Are they not just as fair and likely to catch a suitor's wandering eye?"   
  
"Just as fair, but too young yet for such things," Gimli corrected him.   
  
Merry piped up from his raised seat at the far end of the table. "If I might be so bold as to say, I don' think there's a lady here who's not as fair as anyone has the right to be." A slight hiccup gave away the fact that he was just a bit tipsy.   
  
Éowyn smiled at her one-time battle companion. "Mean you to make us all blush, Master Meriadoc?" But he was the one who ended up blushing.   
  
"I simply meant to give the wee girls a bit of a compliment," Gimli grumbled. "I meant not to offend."   
  
Aragorn settled the matter with smooth words. "Each lady gathered represents beauty in her own fashion. So it cannot be disputed that the daughters of Faramir are fair. I think they may be even more beautiful now than they were the day I helped bring them into the world."   
  
Edoawen's nose wrinkled up. "I should hope so, my lord."   
  
This received much laughter, which seemed to catch Eliocyla's twin off-guard. But she did smile and that was certainly more attractive on her than a scowl.   
  
"Ah, but even on the day of their birth I knew that someday my eyes would not be the only ones to recognize their beauty," Faramir added, almost sadly. He glanced at his sister's brother and then at the King. "So it goes when one becomes a father to a daughter. And doubly so for two."   
  
Éowyn glanced at her daughters before touching her husband's arm. "I do believe we make shy our girls, my lord," she murmured.   
  
Faramir nodded. Clearing his throat, he lifted his goblet. "I raise my cup and ask you to raise yours." When everyone followed his lead, he continued, "To the Great Fellowship…the true reason behind this celebration. As we were in the past, and ever shall be, we are grateful for your courage and deeds."   
  
The toast was echoed. As he sipped his wine, Aragorn looked at the brother of the only fallen Fellowship member. He set his goblet down and leaned over a bit towards him. "There were more people responsible for the outcome of our endeavor than you accredit…yourself and your lady included."   
  
"But I can hardly raise my own cup to myself, can I?"   
  
The King shook his head. "Modesty is not a usual trait amongst the sons of kings or stewards," he said. "But you carry it well, my friend."   
  
The meal passed without further incidents of note, and when the last plates of fruit pies and sugared candies had been whisked away, the King stood up from his chair, a signal that the feast was over. He held his hand out for his Queen's, which she took a light hold on as she rose to her feet. It was an understood matter that after the meal there was to be dancing and merriment, which would most likely include generous quantities of mead, which in turn would undoubtedly lead to Shire songs and dances performed upon the tops of the tables. It was always fun, but on that night, Eliocyla simply did not feel up to it.   
  
Somehow, she managed to slip away when the diners stood up to follow the King and Queen. Quietly, as not to attract any attention to her escape, she made her way out of the hall, out of the elaborate chambers carved into the very mountain itself, and out into the fresh, cold night air.   
  
Eliocyla walked past the White Tree of Gondor, past the meticulously kept greens, and out to the very tip of the Citadel where the wind swept ten times faster. But for once, she did not bother about the state of her hair.   
  
"I am at the very top of the world," she said out loud, looking down upon the back and forth path the main road through Minas Tirith created through the city. Eliocyla hugged her arms around her slender body to ward off the sudden chill that rippled down her spine. "And I am alone."   
  
"No. You are not."   
  
She whipped around so fast to confront whomever spoke from behind her that she almost lost her balance. As she tipped towards the stone ledge, a pair of strong arms caught her up in their safety. Eliocyla looked up into the intense stare that had been focused on her throughout dinner.   
  
"Careful, *wen*," Eldarion said. His voice was low, and throbbed with something that she could not identify. "It is a long fall."   
  
Although her wanton side, which she had not even realized she possessed, might have liked to stay as close as possible to the warmth of the Prince's body, Elioclya quickly pulled away. "You startled me, your majesty."   
  
"Then I offer my apologies."   
  
The corners of her lips lifted. "There is no need." A moment passed by, though it seemed endless. His eyes were twin pools of silvery-blue, clearer than a placid lake on a cold morning. She found herself looking away. "What was it that you called me?" she asked to fill the silence.   
  
"*Wen*? It means 'maiden' in the tongue of the Eldar. It is part of your own sister's name."   
  
Elioclya glanced back at him. "I know nothing of the language, my lord. My father has no books written in Elvish, therefore I have never had the chance to study it."   
  
Eldarion walked to the precipice that she had almost gone over; the tips of his leather boots hung over the edge, as if challenging gravity to a duel. "My Mother and Father have spoken it to us since we were born. My first words were not even in the tongue of Man."   
  
"This upsets you," she softly noted.   
  
"I speak the language of a race no longer known to the lands over which I am to be king. But more than that…" He turned his face up towards the star-studded sky. "When I look at both Elves and Men, I cannot see myself in either."   
  
Eliocyla thought for a moment before replying, "You are unique, my lord."   
  
"Unique. I suppose that is a more pleasant way of describing a half-breed." Eldarion stepped back from the edge, and she breathed a little sigh of relief. "What draws you away from the festivities?"   
  
"I could not say," she replied truthfully. "Often times I can be in the midst of a crowd of friends and loved ones…yet feel utterly alone."   
  
He nodded slowly, his strong chin outlined in the moon's light. "And on those times, it is better to actually be alone?"   
  
Running her tongue over her lower lip, she lowered her head. "Is that beyond the realm of believing my lord?"   
  
"Quite the contrary." Eldarion reached out and guided her chin up until they locked stares once again. "There is nothing that is not possible."   
  
"Clya!"   
  
The all-too familiar voice of her sister yelling for her shattered the moment. Clearing his throat, the Prince backed up several steps. "I would not tarnish your reputation with rumors of midnight rendezvous'. Good evening, Lady Eliocyla." With a slight bow, he turned and took the quickest path back into the castle.   
  
Only a moment after he disappeared into the shadows, Edoawen ran out onto the greens, her skirts lifted well beyond the limit of propriety in order that she might not trip. "Clya!" Once she reached her twin, she let her dress drop back down around her feet. "What in Valar's name are you doing out here by yourself?"   
  
"Taking a much needed breath of fresh air, sister." She put her hands on her hips. "By what right do you follow me?"   
  
"I am under orders from Father to fetch you and return you to the Hall," her sister replied just as haughtily. Her snotty tone dropped a few notches. "I worried for your safety."   
  
Elioclya managed a smile. "Thank you. I suppose it would be rude to the King and Queen if I stayed away altogether."   
  
"Exactly." Edoawen hooked her arm around Elioclya's. "And more than that…" She peered around them in all directions as if to confirm that they were indeed alone. She dropped her voice to a nearly unintelligible mumble. "I require your help, as you know I have no talent at dancing. But…I wish to dance with…with the Prince!"   
  
She blinked several times. "Why, Awen?"   
  
Edoawen's back straightened as she frowned. "Because…he's…well, that is to say he…oh…I know not! All I know is that in the past two years since we were last in the City, I have thought of no man, save him. And I know that in your mind you must be laughing to think of your wild sister caring for any man, but I do, Clya, I do. Do you think…" She unhooked their arms and came around in front of her twin. "Do you think there is a chance in the heavens that he might think of me, too?"   
  
Elioclya tried to swallow, but her mouth was far too dry. Her sister's entire face glowed as she eagerly awaited an answer. Finally, she was able to down the lump in her throat. Choking back curses to the unjust fates that were responsible for placing her in such a situation, Eliocyla could only nod.   
  
"There is nothing," she whispered, "that is not possible."   
  
****   
  
To Be Continued 


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Most of the characters, and you know who they are, do not belong to me, but to Tolkien.  
  
Author's Notes: Thanks everyone for the interest in the story...hehe...I love hearing what you think about the "couples," even if you don't agree with what it seems like I'm doing;) Enjoy the chapter!!  
  
****  
  
The Power of Two  
  
by Kristen Elizabeth  
  
****   
  
The next morning, while the King and his guests broke their fast, some still shaking off the effects of the previous night's revelry, a lone rider approached the gates of Minas Tirith, requesting entrance into the City. His appeal was sent directly to the Citadel.   
  
"My lord, forgive the intrusion," the guard entrusted with the message said upon entering the dining hall. All eyes turned to him, and conversations came to a gradual stop. The guard bowed. "But there is a rider at the gate who wears the symbol of the Court of Rohan. He asks to speak to you, your majesty, as well as to his own king."   
  
Rohan's king stood, forgetting formalities for a moment. "Who is this man?" he asked.   
  
"He did not say, my lord. He only said that it was of the utmost importance and urgency."   
  
"A man of my court would give his name," Éomer informed them.   
  
After a moment's contemplation, Aragorn set aside his napkin and pushed away from the table. "Send word that he is to be let into the City, but detained at the gate. We shall go to him."   
  
The tension around the table was thick all of a sudden. It was as if the message, even though it was vague, had cast a cold shadow over all present. Husbands reached for their wives hands, the younger children looked to their parents, but the Crown Prince simply stood up. "I ask to accompany you, Father."   
  
Aragorn shook his head. "Stay and see to the guests of our Throne." He lowered his voice. "If there is trouble, you shall likely know of it all too soon, my son." He glanced around the table, catching the eye of Legolas first, then Gimli, and finally Faramir. Then, he and Éomer departed, leaving everyone to their unease.   
  
Éowyn threaded her fingers through Faramir's. "My skin is all gooseflesh. Something is wrong."   
  
"Shh, my love," her husband murmured. "There is no cause for worry."   
  
"Yet." Next to his mother, Théodan dragged a spoon through his boiled oats, although he had not taken a bite since the meal began. "But there will be."   
  
And at hearing this from his youngest son who had a frightening way of being right about things, Faramir felt his own flesh crawl.   
  
****   
  
Hours after the morning meal had been abandoned, Edoawen found Eldarion pacing back and forth in front of his father's throne, his hands clutched behind his back and an unusually heavy look weighing down his beautiful face. She took a deep breath and tried to smooth down the fly-away strands of her long, loose hair.   
  
"My lord?" she addressed him. Her voice echoed several times down the length of the Great Hall.   
  
He stopped and glanced at her. "Lady Edoawen."   
  
It pleased her for a moment that he could tell the difference between her and her sister, until she realized that it might just be the slightly wrinkled state of her dress. The gown's condition wasn't entirely her fault, she reasoned. The maids obviously had not packed it properly for the journey to Minas Tirith.   
  
"What troubles you, my lord?"   
  
"Nothing that I would burden you with," he replied gently.   
  
Her heart leaped. A man swept up in affections for a woman would always shield his lady from worry, would he not? Perhaps despite all of her shortcomings as such, she might just be the lady in his heart.   
  
"I do not mind," Edoawen continued, moving closer. "My father claims that his burdens are easier borne when he shares them with my mother."   
  
Eldarion gave her a slight smile. "I would not argue with the wisdom of Ithilien's ruler. In truth, my lady, I worry what news this strange rider brings that is of such secrecy and importance." Before she could say anything in return, he unclasped his hands and reached out to touch her shoulder.   
  
If she had not been so infatuated, she might have interpreted the contact as it was meant, a gesture of an old friend, or perhaps even an older brother. But to Edoawen, Eldarion's touch merely cemented her feelings for him, and gave her renewed hope in his for her.   
  
Unaware, the Prince continued, "All shall be revealed in its own time, I suppose. But I do owe you my gratitude."   
  
"For what, my lord?" she whispered. "I have said nothing of importance."   
  
"You have reminded me that I am not alone in my worries." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, my lady."   
  
She watched him walk away through eyes rosy with the haze of young love. Everything about him made her entire body sing. The shine in the dark curls at the nape of his neck, the scent of leather from his breastplate, his voice that resonated with the agelessness of his Elven ancestors. If this was true love, she finally understood what made her parents so blissfully happy.   
  
Edoawen practically floated back the bed chamber she was sharing with her twin. For the first time in her life, she felt as graceful as her sister, and as beautiful as her mother. Elioclya sat in the stone seat created by the window's wide lip; she had a pile of sewing in her lap, but she was looking out over the City. She turned her head when Edoawen entered the room.   
  
"Where have you been?" she asked mildly.   
  
"Paradise," Edoawen answered, dropping down onto her bed with exaggerated drama. A Cheshire grin spread across her face.   
  
She couldn't help but mimic the expression. "And where is Paradise, exactly?"   
  
"Wherever Prince Eldarion happens to be."   
  
Eliocyla's smile faded away, like a flower wilting in an overly heated room. "You…spoke to the Prince?"   
  
"'Spoke' is such a formal word, sister." Edoawen sat up and crossed her legs like a boy might, mindless of her skirts. "I happened upon him in the Great Hall, and he was most troubled."   
  
"Was he?" Her throat was tight, resistant to the question, but somehow she forced it out.   
  
"I offered to share his burdens with him…and he accepted!" Her sister sighed. "Just like Mother and Father."   
  
"Mother and Father…" Elioclya echoed.   
  
Edoawen crawled off the bed and approached her twin. Sitting across from her on the windowsill, she spoke in a confiding tone. "And then something wonderful happened." Taking her sister's silence as a cue to go on, she loudly whispered, "He kissed me!"   
  
The room was suddenly ice-cold, although a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth. Eliocyla was having trouble breathing, as though in addition to the drop in temperature, all of the air had been sucked away. Lowered slightly, her eyes darted back and forth as she fought back on onslaught of tears.   
  
**How foolish you are,** she chided herself. **The meaning behind the Prince's words, spoken under the stars was your imagination, nothing more. Let this be a lesson to you. Keep your affections to yourself until they are confirmed, lest you make a spectacle…or cause yourself heartache.**   
  
She looked up, hoping desperately that her eyes were not as wet as they seemed. Edoawen was waiting for her reply; the face that so perfectly matched hers was lit up like she had not ever seen it before. How could she be so selfish as to think of herself when her twin was so obviously besotted with something other than riding her horse or sparring with their brothers?   
  
"I am truly happy for you." Eliocyla reached for her sister, embracing her tightly.   
  
Edoawen was caught off guard, but only for a moment. She returned the hug, just as whole-heartedly. "You are? I had worried that you…" Her thought trailed off.   
  
"Worry not," Elioclya said, pulling back. "We are sisters, Awen. Your happiness…is my happiness."   
  
With a delighted cry, Edoawen embraced her sister again and did not let go as she talked on about her encounter with Eldarion. She did not even feel her twin's tears falling against her tangled curls.   
  
****   
  
"And this has been confirmed?"   
  
The rider nodded at the King. "It has, my lord. We received word at the Mark only two days after your departure," he said, turning his attention to Rohan's ruler. "I was sent to bring you word, but I make apologies for the mystery of my arrival. I have pushed my horse for three straight days without stop."   
  
Éomer shook his head. "No apologies are necessary." He looked to Aragorn. "My people need my presence, your majesty. And, if I might be so bold, the aid of Gondor, as well. The wildmen of the north have long pressed the boundaries of our lands, even in the wake of the defeat of their allies. We have tolerated it too long. This direct attack…it should have been avoided." His large hands balled up into tight fists. "I shall carry the weight of the guilt, but I cannot let these barbarians roam freely any longer."   
  
"Think you that this was not a random incident?" Aragorn asked the rider.   
  
"It was not, my lord," the young man replied. "It was a challenge to our country that claimed several lives that we know of." He glanced down at his hands, dirty with the grime of his long journey. "I come from that village. I know not if my family…" He looked back up, anger glinting in his dark eyes. "What say you, my lord?"   
  
The King pressed the tips of his fingers together. "I thought to see no more battles in my lifetime, but some battles need to be seen. Gondor will ride to the aid of Rohan, as Rohan has ridden to our aid. We shall leave by dawn's light." He stood up from the conference table. "Aethor, son of Gwomyr," he addressed Éomer's young Captain of the Guard, who rose as well, out of respect. "Rest until then. Whatever you need shall be provided."   
  
"If I might see to my horse, your majesty?" Aethor requested.   
  
"He is cared for in the stables by now, but if you so wish." Aragorn looked to Rohan's king. "First, we must break this news to our friends and allies. Doubtless they will also ride with us."   
  
Aethor bowed. "If you will excuse me, my lords."   
  
Éomer clapped a hand on the young man's broad, strong shoulder. "You have served your country well."   
  
"Indeed," the King echoed. "Dine with my court tonight in preparation for the long road ahead."   
  
"But your majesty…"   
  
"I insist," Aragorn cut him off. "Be assured, Aethor…the company at my table is far fairer than you will find in any tavern."   
  
The captain of Rohan bowed again before turning and leaving.   
  
Crossing his arms, Éomer cursed under his breath. "I have long thought to strengthen the borders of my lands, but I did not expect so sudden and brutal an attack."   
  
"I would not have either," the King confessed. "It is a problem that shall be addressed, Éomer, so think on it not until tomorrow." His serious expression softened. "Your young captain…be he married or bethrothed?"   
  
Rohan's king frowned. "I do not believe so, although I rarely meddle in the personal affairs of my court, your majesty. Why do you ask?"   
  
"For no particular reason. He simply reminds me of a lady…of whom we are both fatherly fond." He smiled. "Perhaps, ere we depart, there is time for me to meddle in the affairs of my own court…"   
  
****   
  
Aethor, son of Gwomyr who rode for Gondor with Theoden-king, but had not returned to his pregnant wife, had never been outside the comfortable borders of his beloved Rohan. His mother had brought him up with stories of his father's bravery and sacrifice, and although he had been born months after the man's death, he had always felt the same strong pull of nationalism and service to the king.   
  
All of his devotion and hard work had paid off, and though he might have been infantile in the eyes of the older Rohirric soldiers, Éomer-king had recently rewarded him with a high position as a Captain of the Guard. It was a responsibility he'd taken with honor and seriousness, even if it had saddened him to leave his family behind in the care of his mother's second husband, especially his young half-sister, Adrema, who was just approaching her thirteenth birthday.   
  
It was thoughts of what might have happened to them in the reported attacks that had driven him non-stop to Minas Tirith. But now that he had arrived, his message had been delivered, and a decision made by the kings of the land to ride to the rescue, Aethor found that he could not so easily clear his own mind of its worries.   
  
He had thought a trip to the stables to check on his stallion, Gadeon, might soothe him. A man of Rohan through and through, Aethor had a bond of mutual respect and friendship with the magnificent creature he'd seen raised from a gangly foal.   
  
But even after checking to make sure the stable hands of the City had provided Gadeon with adequate food, watering and shelter, Aethor was still as restless as a field of tall grasses in a strong breeze. He looked again at his hands, discovering them to be even dirtier than before. He was not a man given to vanities, but he reasoned that if he were to be dining at the King's table within a matter of hours, he likely had need to wash up before then.   
  
Even after residing in Meduseld for nearly a year, he was not yet accustomed to being waited upon by servants. He had much rather wait on himself than rely on someone else; it was just the way he had brought up. This self-reliance was what led him on a half-hour search through Elessar-king's palace for anything resembling a working well.   
  
And it was on one of his fruitless forays up and down the halls that he passed by a heavy wooden door, which was slightly ajar, casting a sliver of light across the darkened floor. It was not the light, but the sound of a woman humming that caught his attention, however.   
  
Aethor had no talent for music, but he did have an ear for it as his mother carried a pretty tune. This woman's singing, however, left much to be desired. Slightly off-key and unbalanced in pitch and tone, he figured it had to be some adolescent servant girl, and if so, there was no harm in informing the child that her singing could be heard in the hall. It might even save her some embarrassment.   
  
Without knocking, Aethor pushed the door open and stuck his head inside. Where he had expected a girl on her knees, scraping ashes from the hearth, what he got was a slender young woman with blond hair that cascaded in waves all the way down to the small of her back, clothed in nothing but a white shift, standing at her window. The mid-afternoon light filtered through the flimsy material, silhouetting her perfectly curved body in a way that made his mouth go dry.   
  
"Excuse me, my lady," he said, breaking through her awkward song.   
  
The vision at the window turned her head and instantly screamed. Aethor's first reaction was to apologize and bolt, but something about the woman made him shut the door behind him and put a finger to his lips. "Shhh! Do you want to bring the entire guard?"   
  
"To start with!" she replied, hotly, as she reached for a robe. Donning it, she quickly covered up everything he would have liked to see in greater detail. "How dare you enter my chamber without announcing yourself?"   
  
"In all fairness, it was you who left your door nearly open," Aethor reminded her. "If that was not an invitation to enter, then I know not what would be."   
  
Her eyes, a mysterious blue-grey hue that reminded him of an oncoming storm, flashed like lightning. "There was no invitation that any well-bred man would recognize, at least," she shot back. "But from your appearance, I take it you are no such man, so I suppose I should forgive you and send you on your way with an understanding that you are never to cross my path again."   
  
Aethor's eyebrow arched. "Well…we are generous with our insults, are we not? Who are you to judge my position so harshly, when you stand like a wanton woman at your window, enticing all who might pass with a song…hummed out of tune, I might add."   
  
Her rage, if possible, grew even more. "A lady does not need to give her name to a ruffian!"   
  
"I may not know many ladies," he countered, "But I do not believe for a moment that you are one."   
  
She drew herself up to her full height; her chin lifted into the air as though she were the Queen herself. "If it were in my power, I would have you banished from this court. How you are even here in the first place probably owes more to you finding yourself lost on the way to your home in the pigs pen than by any royal invitation."   
  
He chuckled, even though her words stung just a bit. "A clever insult. But are we to trade them all day? I have made a long journey, and I have been promised much more pleasant company than this by the King himself."   
  
"The King knows not what sort of creature he has invited into his palace."   
  
"I could say the same of you." Aethor bowed with great mocking. "I leave you to your window and your song." Before he left, he turned back around for one last look at the beautiful, but thoroughly haughty woman. "I would advise you to make sure this door is properly bolted, and spare some other wandering 'creature' the misfortune of stumbling across you."   
  
She reached for the first thing she could lay her hands on, a pile of sewing on the windowsill, but he had already gone by the time it hit the door.   
  
Edoawen's hands clenched up as she reigned in a scream of frustration. Stamping her foot, she threw off her robe and flung it across her bed with the same force she had used to hurtle her sister's sewing at the stranger. Elioclya would probably be upset that the work she'd abandoned in order to take a bath before supper now lay in a pile on the floor, but she really couldn't bring herself to care right then.   
  
"Thank the graces for men like Eldarion," she announced out loud. Stalking back to the door, she flung it open and yelled down the hall, "He more than makes up for the likes of you!!"  
  
Aethor barely heard what she said. He was too busy laughing.   
  
****   
  
To Be Continued 


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: Most of the characters within do not belong to me. Some of them do, but not all:)  
  
Author's Notes: Sorry it's taken awhile to get this out, and I hope if you're still reading, you'll enjoy it. Take care!

The Power of Two  
  
by Kristen Elizabeth

"Will you ride out with us, my friends?" Aragorn looked around the table at his fellow warriors. They were all a bit older, even the Prince of Mirkwood, although he may not have looked it, but he could see the same determination in their eyes that had once been sufficient to change the course of history. "Your help is ever needed and wanted."   
  
Faramir was the first to answer. "My wife is of Edoras, and my children share blood with her kin. I would ride to the aid of Rohan even if you did not ask, my lord."   
  
"You're always gettin' me into scrapes, laddie," Gimli told the King. "Because you know I cannot pass up a battle."   
  
Legolas simply replied, "Shadows lie in the north which must come into the light."   
  
Éomer frowned. "Is that a 'yay,' Master Elf?"   
  
"I have offered my bow before, and I shall again," he clarified for Rohan's king.   
  
The Hobbits were the last to speak. "We are not great warriors," Sam said plainly.   
  
"Speak for yourself!" Merry added, indignantly.   
  
"But we would like to help where we can," he finished up, shooting his friend a look.   
  
Aragorn nodded. "It would ease our minds greatly if we knew that there were friends left behind to watch over our loved ones." He cleared his throat. "We leave by dawn's light, but I know not when we shall return. Therefore tonight, we shall feast."

The King kept true to his word, and the feast that night was grand…but somber. With the departure of their men looming in the distant future, the women especially were quiet as they ate and drank.   
  
Elioclya couldn't shake the feeling that someone was staring at her. She lifted her eyes from her plate and glanced down the length of the table. Seated amongst the honored company was a man she'd never seen before. He was very handsome; he had shoulder-length hair that reminded her of Elboron's, a clean-shaven face, and he wore the symbol of Rohan on his breastplate. A disturbingly intimate grin spread on his lips as he watched her. Elioclya frowned and looked in the other direction just in time to hear her mother's question.   
  
"Where is your sister, Clya? She has never been late to a meal since she first learned to walk," Éowyn said with forced merriment.   
  
"I know not, Mother. Last I saw of her she was dressing for dinner and promised to follow me here when she was ready."   
  
Faramir nearly choked on a bite of roasted fowl. "Our Awen stayed behind from dinner to preen her feathers?" he asked. "It is a miracle." When his other daughter failed to even smile, he swallowed, frowning. "What distresses my Clya?"   
  
"Distresses me, Father? I am not…"   
  
He cut her off gently. "You are like your mother; you try to hide it." He caught Éowyn's eye. "But I can tell. Our departure worries you, too."   
  
She let out a pent-up breath. "Of course. Of course it does, Father." She dropped her forehead to his shoulder as Faramir put his arm around her. "I worry for you and Elboron and my uncle and…all the other men."   
  
Down at the other end of the table, Aethor's thoughts were nothing but a mangled web of confusion. The young woman sitting only a few places down from the King and now leaning into the Prince of Ithilien…he had instantly recognized her upon sitting down at the table as the vixen he'd encountered earlier. But she was not as she had been in her chamber. Here she was calm, polite, composed, still beautiful, but lacking the passion that had instantly intrigued him…and had caused him to sink into a cold bath, rather than a warmed one.   
  
But Aethor was convinced that her demure manners and sweet smiles were just an act put on for the court. They had to be. He wondered if anyone else at the table had ever seen her true side, the spit-fire who stood half-naked in her chamber, singing out of tune? Some small part of him fervently hoped that he was the only one.   
  
He looked to his right; the graceful figure sitting next to him was not a man, but an Elf. It was his first encounter with one of the legendary people, beside whom he felt like a bungling beast. But he was not prone to nervousness, and plunged on with his question as though he were addressing one of his own. "My lord, I know no one at this table, save for those who reside in Edoras. Might you tell me who is the young lady seated there?" He pointed discreetly.   
  
Legolas did not have to look up to know to whom the boy was referring. The eyes of the young Rohirric captain had not left the lady since they were seated. "The pride and joy of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and Lady Éowyn of the Mark," Legolas replied, plucking a single grape from a dewy bunch with elegant movements. "The sister-daughter of your own king."   
  
"I am new to Éomer-king's court and know little about his sister or her family. What is her name?"   
  
With cool consideration, Legolas regarded him. He seemed to be only a year or two older than Aragorn's son, and the only title he carried was that of Captain in Rohan's army, but there was strength of character surrounding him that he saw in few Men.   
  
"The lady was born Elioclya," he finally answered. Mentioning the fact that she was one of a pair did not occur to Legolas at the moment, something he would regret later. Making mistakes or overlooking details was not usual for one of his race.   
  
"Elioclya," Aethor mused. "It suits the woman I see." But not the wench who yelled at me in naught but her underthings.   
  
The lady in question looked back at him with the same bothered expression. Reaching for his goblet, Aethor lifted it, toasting her with a private smirk.   
  
The moment went unnoticed by the rest of the table, save for one man. Between his oldest sister and Elboron, jealously flared to life at the very center of Eldarion's chest. He turned a dark glower onto the newcomer to his father's table. They might be on the same side of the battle that was to come, but it was unlikely they would ever be true allies.   
  
With a slight slur present in his words that was testimony to how much wine he'd consumed, Elboron slung an arm around his friend's shoulders. "It has come to my brotherly attention, that the rider of Rohan casts an interested eye on my youngest sister."   
  
Eldarion grimaced. "Perhaps you should turn your brotherly attention into brotherly protection and put stop to it."   
  
"I have little right to rule over my sister's life when she kindly holds her tongue regarding mine." Despite the fog of drink that hung over his head, he could still very clearly recall Eliocyla's face the time she caught him and a serving girl in the stables, and he would be ever grateful for her discretion and lack of judgment. "Besides, he seems an upstanding sort. Perhaps not as titled as some who might court her, but…"   
  
Eldarion interrupted with a thunder that was completely out of character. "She is innocent and unlearned, like a budding rose. Would you stand by and allow a lout to pluck her?!"   
  
It was only when he felt his mother's cool hand touching his that he realized just how loud he had been. Arwen leaned closer to her oldest child and in the language she had used to speak to him when he was still sheltered in her womb asked, "My son, what is the matter?"   
  
He blew out a short breath and replied in perfect Elvish, "Nothing, Mother. Nothing worth mentioning."   
  
"I do not believe you."   
  
"Neither do I," Aragorn added, jumping into their conversation. "But let us not speak like this in front of our guests for much longer."   
  
Arwen nodded at her husband and waited for him to turn away. "Your eyes tell me what your lips will not, child. And I say, if Faramir's daughter's heart be unclaimed, what stops you from claiming it?"   
  
How could he find the words in either the tongues of Man or Elf to adequately explain what he was feeling? "Nothing but my own cowardice," Eldarion answered.   
  
"Overcome it," his mother told him succinctly. She glanced down the table with a knowing look. "Before Rohan's guard claims what you want." Switching from Elvish to Sindarian without pause, Arwen returned her attention to the general conversation.   
  
Elboron frowned. "Are you angered?" he asked the Prince.   
  
"Not at you, my friend." He cleared his throat. "I pray that if you disagree with what I am about to ask, you will drink the question out of your mind before morning, but I must try." After a pause, Eldarion continued. "Do I have your permission as a brother to speak to your sister?"   
  
Faramir and Éowyn's eldest child broke into a wide smile that was all the answer the Prince needed. "Nothing would make me happier than to call you 'brother'." He raised his silver goblet. "Here's to you and…" He trailed off. "Which one do you want?"   
  
"Elioclya," Eldarion replied in a voice so low that even he barely heard it.   
  
"Of course, of course!" Elboron rose out of his seat, wobbling just a bit. "Here's to you and my sister, Edoawen!"   
  
Catching the tail end of his son's declaration, Faramir cut the Prince off before he could correct his friend. "What is this we are toasting, Elboron, and what does it have to do with your sister?"   
  
Elboron, still jumbled by the alcohol he had consumed, answered his father, "Eldarion wishes to speak to our Awen."   
  
"There has been a…" Eldarion tried to clear up the matter, but he was again interrupted.   
  
Arwen gave her son a puzzled look. "Did I mistake the true object of your affections?" she asked him in Elvish.   
  
Eldarion's head ached. Questions and congratulations were being tossed at him from everyone at the table it seemed, as well as many comments about his supposed intended's noticeable absence. He put a hand across his face, hoping it might block some of the attention. When he glanced up again, the noise still continued, but there were two less faces gathered around the table.   
  
Elioclya had silently slipped away while he wasn't looking.   
  
And it seemed likely that Aethor of Rohan had followed her.   
  
With great empathy, Legolas watched his friend's son's shoulders slump as he was pulled into a sticky situation that was going from bad to worse without stop. He too had noted the quick departure of Elioclya and Aethor, and for the first time in many years, he felt a twinge of regret for not telling the Rohirrim that the woman he had inquired after had an identical twin.

Aethor caught up with the blond beauty halfway down the wide stone hallway that led to the guest's chambers. She had stopped short and leaned against a pillar, as though she could no longer stand on her own. As he approached, he saw the shudder in her slender, almost gaunt frame, but more importantly, heard the soft sound of her sobs.   
  
"I ask myself," he began, his booming voice shattering the hall's silence. Elicoclya turned her head, putting a surprised hand to her throat. "What has happened to turn the vixen at the window into the waif by the pillar?"   
  
Wiping at her tears, Elioclya shook her head. "I know not of what you speak. Have we been introduced?"   
  
"Not officially." He took a step closer, slightly annoyed when she shrunk back as though afraid of him. "And you have no cause to keep up your theatrics with me; I have seen the woman behind the mask."   
  
"My lord?"   
  
Aethor took another step, but this time reached out and grabbed her before she could step back. "You have called me a 'ruffian,' and a 'creature,' and accused me of sleeping with pigs. Formalities need no longer be used between us, agreed?"   
  
Elioclya looked down at her wrist, which he held in a firm, but painless grip. "I do not understand you, sir. Please, leave me be." She tried to twist out of his hold, but he merely reached for her other wrist.   
  
"I have thought of nothing else but you since our first brief, but colorful, meeting, Elioclya," Aethor whispered. "This game of innocence you insist upon playing only ensures that I will carry thoughts of you back to Rohan."   
  
She stared at him for a long moment before it all began to make sense. "Oh…no…you do not understand. You see, I have a…"   
  
Just then, with her usual spotty sense of timing still intact, Edoawen stepped out of their bedchamber and into the hallway. "Clya?" Her sight settled on the man holding onto her twin. Instantly, her eyes narrowed into dangerously thin slits. "Remove your hands from my sister, or I swear I shall strike you down where you stand."   
  
Aethor looked at the new arrival, then at the woman in front of him, and then back again for a minute that stretched on. On his final glance at Elioclya, she gave him a weak smile and finished her previous thought. "…an identical sister."   
  
Edoawen stormed over to them and pulled her twin away. "Are you all right?"   
  
"I am unhurt," Elioclya assured her.   
  
"This is either a work of witchcraft," Aethor mused out loud, "Or the answer to some unspoken prayer. I cannot decide."   
  
Edoawen tossed her perfectly combed hair over her shoulder. "Only a depraved heathen would make such prayers," she snapped.   
  
"Ah, now there is the tart I recall." Chuckling, the man crossed his arms over his broad chest. "And your name is…?"   
  
She hesitated before answering, "Edoawen, daughter of the Prince of Ithilien."   
  
A shadow crossed Aethor's face. "So…the vixen by the window has already been claimed. And by one much higher born than myself." He shook off his momentary melancholy and bowed at Elioclya. "My lady, forgive me my ignorance and callous treatment. My name is Aethor, son of Gwomyr, a Captain in the Guard of your mother's brother, Éomer-king, if you wish to report my offense."   
  
"I have no wish to do so," Elioclya told him quietly. "You are not the first to be so confused, and you will likely not be the last."   
  
He bowed again before turning his focus to Edoawen. "My best wishes to you on your upcoming betrothal. It is a brave man who would take you on as a wife."   
  
Indignation marched across her face accompanied by deep confusion. She had no chance to vocalize either; Aethor turned and walked away.   
  
"What meant that horrible man, Clya?   
  
She met her twin's puzzled look with one of her own, but free of expression or emotion. "Prince Eldarion plans to ask for your hand…in marriage."   
  
Stunned out of words for the first time in her life, Edoawen stumbled back a few steps. "Surely not…"   
  
"Would you not accept him as a suitor?" Elioclya asked. The twinge of hopefulness in the question was lost on her sister.   
  
"I would never refuse him! He is the only man in the world!!" Edoawen snapped out of her stupor and cried out loud enough to make her twin wince. "I am to be Eldarion's wife?! He chose…he chose me!"   
  
"He did." The younger twin brought her hand up to her mouth. "Excuse me, sister. Dinner does not sit well with me."   
  
Edoawen's euphoria was so overwhelming that she did not notice Eliocyla running away as fast as she could.   
  
"Eldarion," she said out loud. "I must speak to Eldarion." A wide smile lit up her entire face. "My betrothed."

"However am I to correct this situation without causing the lady humiliation?" Eldarion asked the long row of statues that lined his father's hall. His ancestors offered nothing but stony silence, but he continued, "I shall never again speak to Elboron of anything of importance when he is full of drink."   
  
With a sigh that echoed all the way down the empty hall, Eldarion sat on the first step that led up to the King's throne. With angry jerks, he pulled at the ties of his formal cloak and threw off the heavy garment. He dropped his forehead into his hands and stared at the marble floor.   
  
If he were to admit the truth and announce that he wished to marry Elioclya, not her sister, it would be not only an embarrassment to his family, but to the House of Ithilien as well. It would put twin against twin and perhaps even cause strife between him and Elboron. No one would emerge unscathed.   
  
But if he said nothing, he would only cause more pain in the long term when Edoawen realized that he could never feel for her beyond what he felt for his own sisters. And Elioclya…she would be promised to another man, perhaps the stallion of Rohan who had stared at her throughout the banquet. Eldarion's eyes narrowed and his fists clenched at the thought. He could not let that happen.   
  
The sound of delicate footsteps approaching the doors into the hall caught the attention of his super-sensitive hearing, a gift from his mother's lineage that he never took for granted. "Who approaches?" he asked as the door opened.   
  
A delicate face peeked through the doors, followed by a messy mane of blond hair. His stomach twisted in an entirely unpleasant manner. It was Edoawen. Surely she had heard of their supposed betrothal by now. He closed his eyes briefly. Valar…what was he to do?   
  
"My lord," she began. "Do I bother you?"   
  
Eldarion opened his eyes. "Not at all. Enter, lady. Please."   
  
She stepped fully into the room, but instead of approaching him, hesitated at the door. "Now that I am here, I know not what to say."   
  
"In truth, I am rather at a loss for words myself," he admitted.   
  
The young woman licked her lips, moistening them to a flush rose that would have stirred his blood, if not for the weight of guilt on his shoulders. "One of us should find something to say. Else this shall be a silent…marriage."   
  
"Lady Edoawen…" Eldarion stood up.   
  
She held up one slender hand and took a few steps forward before he could continue. "Please, my lord. Allow me to speak my mind first."   
  
He blew out a short breath. "By all means."   
  
"This news of your intentions comes as quite a surprise, you should know." As she spoke, she walked ever closer, until she was only a foot or two away from the base of the throne. "There has been…evidence of your affections for…my sister." She looked up at him with a cool, curious stare. "Was there no meaning in those indications?"   
  
Eldarion could not bring himself to think of answer for a long moment. Her eyes…something about them tugged at him. He knew this composed gaze. He'd dreamt of it during many a long, lonely night.   
  
"I would lie if I said there was not," he finally replied. Liquid joy brimmed over in those beautiful eyes, revealing her true self to him as surely as if she'd announced herself. "If your sister knew this, would it make her heart happy?"   
  
"Yes," she whispered. "I feel…I know that it would."   
  
Without stopping to think, Eldarion reached out, taking her slender waist in his hand and pulling her body up against his. She fit perfectly. His mouth sought out hers, tender, but passionate. She molded against him, lost in the tremendous sensation of a first kiss.   
  
He broke away only to whisper her name against her soft cheek. "Clya. My Clya…why the deception?"   
  
"I had to know, my lord," she replied, blinking back tears. "Before you could speak to my sister. I know you to be a man of impeccable honor. I feared it would compel you to…" Eliocyla stopped when she felt his lips brush over her ear. "Forgive me."   
  
"There is nothing to be forgiven, save my own actions," he assured her. "I should have ended the misunderstanding before it spread." Eldarion cupped her face, brushing away her tears with his thumbs. "Your sister is like a sister to me. And though she be every bit as beautiful as you, I only desire your heart…for you have long had mine, lady."   
  
He kissed her smile, tasting her happy tears. The feeling of her arms wrapping around his neck was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Eldarion clutched her as their mouths melded, unwilling to ever let go again.   
  
But he was forced to when a strangled gasp of shock echoed down the length of the hall. They broke their kiss to seek out the source of the sound. Upon seeing Edoawen standing in the open doorway, Elioclya pulled away from him abruptly.   
  
"Awen!" she called out even as she pressed her fingers against her swollen lips.   
  
Her twin's body was taught with anger, but heavier with anguish. "Do not speak to me!" she spat out.   
  
"Awen, please!" Eliocyla started towards her sister.   
  
"Mean you to make me more of a fool with your half-hearted explanations?" Edoawen shook her head, her long hair whipping back and forth. "I will not hear you, sister. Not now. Not ever." Without even addressing Eldarion, she spun on her heel and was gone.   
  
All he could do was hold the woman he loved as she began to cry.

To Be Continued


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Characters, at least most of them, don't belong to me. And the rest wouldn't have been created if not for the inspiration of the others, so basically nothing truly belongs to me.  
  
Author's Notes: To everyone still reading along, enjoy!! And thanks for the kind reviews thus far:)  
  
  
  
The Power of Two  
  
by Kristen Elizabeth  
  
  
  
Aethor gently rubbed Gadeon's muzzle, the only soft spot on the tremendous animal. It was one of Gadeon's favorite things. He lifted his head into Aethor's hand, urging him on.   
  
"Easy," Aethor laughed. "I fear you grow spoiled." His horse whinnied and shook his black mane. "I see you agree not." From the pouch tied around his hips, he extracted a carrot that he'd secreted from the palace kitchens. "Here then."   
  
As Gadeon gobbled down the treat from his rider's large palm, Aethor looked around the stables. The horses of Gondor were certainly different that those of Rohan. Gadeon stood at least a head higher than the tallest of the King's beasts, and his breadth dwarfed the lot. In fact, the only horse of compare belonged to Éomer-king, at the far end of the long row of stalls. Perhaps there could be some breeding between Rohan's stallions and Gondor's mares in the future, he mused to himself.   
  
He wasn't particularly given to impure thoughts, at least no more than any other healthy man, but as soon as he had the thought, an image of Princess Edoawen assaulted him. That was one mare of Gondor who thoroughly needed to be bedded. And as much as he might enjoy being the stallion to accomplish the matter, it simply wasn't meant to be. She'd been spoken for, by the King's son, no less. It was pointless to even dwell on her anymore. Of course, there was always her sister, her exact copy to be more specific.   
  
But somehow, that didn't appeal to him. Both girls were beautiful, but there was something about Edoawen that had sparked his interest and kept it burning. She was fire, that one, but from the short conversation he'd had with her sister, he could tell that she was ice.   
  
Finished with his carrot, Gadeon nudged Aethor back to attention. He patted the horse's strong neck. "We both must rest," he told him. "It shall be a long journey tomorrow, and battle beyond that."   
  
He was just about leave when he heard the stable doors open. Ever on guard, even within the walls of Minas Tirith, Aethor focused on the dark end of the stalls, his hand going to the sword that hung at his side. Gadeon's ears flattened along his head.   
  
"Who goes there?" Aethor called out. With his free hand, he reached for the torch on the wall and held it out. "Come into the light."   
  
A moment later, the slender figure of a woman materialized from the shadows. Their eyes met, and instantly her expression went from distraught to disgusted. "It would be you, wouldn't it?"   
  
Aethor relaxed. The woman in front of him was no threat. Except perhaps to his sanity. "Princess Edoawen, I presume. Unless there is a third sister I have yet to meet."   
  
"Why are you here?" she asked, more to Valar than to him.   
  
He set the torch back into its stand. "You were wrong when you assumed that I slept with pigs; I much prefer the company of the horses."   
  
"If I were you, I would not admit to that." Edoawen's voice almost came to life with the insult, but it quickly faded away. "I do not have the time, nor the desire to converse with you. Go. Leave me."   
  
Aethor's eyebrow lifted and Gadeon snorted. "You give orders quite well, my lady. You shall make the Prince a fine wife."   
  
Had he not known her to be strong willed, he would have sworn her lower lip trembled at this. "I shall be no man's wife," she hissed.   
  
"And why is that? Have you already scared off your betrothed with insults?"   
  
"You know me not!" Edoawen suddenly screamed. Her eyes clouded over with hot grief and even hotter anger. "You like me even less. So why can you not just let me be?"   
  
He took a moment to reply. "Because, Princess, in my land, no nobleman would leave a woman alone with her tears."   
  
"And how would you know this? You are no noble man."   
  
Aethor shook his head. "Tis lucky for you that your face be so fair. For your tongue…lady, it is sharper than glass!" Giving Gadeon a final pat, Aethor took off, fuming. His footsteps pounded against the hard dirt long after he'd disappeared into the darkness.   
  
Edoawen wiped at her cheeks and looked at the horse. He was considering her, too. "Do you belong to him?" she asked. The horse's ears lifted. "He may not be so horrible…if he cares for such a handsome creature as thee."   
  
Gadeon proudly tossed his head and allowed the slender woman to approach his stall. She slowly held out her hand; he lowered his muzzle to it.   
  
"Your master is the least of my troubles." Keeping her other hand steady, Edoawen stroked the animal's mane. It was a stretch to do so, as her head barely cleared his withers. "Oh, how I wish I could just ride away," she confessed in one great breath. "Far away from here to a place where I would never again care about manners or dresses or…" She choked up. "Love."   
  
She leaned against the door of the stall. After a long minute, she stood up straight. "Of course," she whispered. "My mother did it; why couldn't I?" Gadeon snorted again, softer this time, as if to question her. "The men depart for Rohan at dawn," Edoawen explained. "Théodan is likely fast asleep; if I take some of his clothes and find myself some armor…" She pressed a hand to her chest. "I have the riding skills of any man. Better even, than most. Like my mother during the great war, I could go unrecognized!" She stroked the horse's sleek neck one last time before taking the torch from the wall. "Rest well. Tomorrow we ride to battle!"   
  
A smile lit up her face as she ran off to put her plan into action.   
  
  
  
"Clya." Eldarion's fingers tangled in the soft blond waves cascading down her back. The woven silks of his mother's gowns could not compare in softness. "Please…cry no more."   
  
They sat at the base of the King's throne, wrapped in each other's arms. Eliocyla was curled against him, her slender body shaking with sobs every now and then. Each one cut him deeply. Was this part of love, sharing pains and sorrows? He would have taken it all onto himself if he could; after all, it was entirely his fault.   
  
"I am sorry, my love," he murmured. "Had I spoken sooner, this could have been avoided."   
  
She lifted her head from his shoulder, but her gaze remained lowered. "Even without this confusion, Awen's heart still would have broke."   
  
Eldarion cupped her delicate face in his hands, forcing her to look up. "Have I somehow led your sister to believe…"   
  
"No. But the heart can lead us to see more than there truly is." Her wet lashes touched her cheeks. "If there is fault, it lies with me."   
  
"How so? Eliocyla…how?"   
  
She opened her eyes, transfixing him with their watery hue. "She and I shared the same womb for nine moons. We were born under the same stars; we've shared everything there is to share. And now…we share something else." Elioclya brushed a dark curl behind his pointed ear. "Love. For you."   
  
He sighed as this sank in. "I have been blind to her feelings."   
  
Fresh tears welled up even as she struggled against them. "But I was not, my lord." A few seconds passed. Finally, Eliocyla fought against his arms until she could stand.   
  
Eldarion followed her lead. "What do you mean?"   
  
She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and turned back around to face him. "How can I let my feelings matter when I have given so little regard to my sister's?"   
  
"Clya?"   
  
Biting the insides of her cheeks until she could taste blood, Elioclya forced out her next words. "There can be nothing between us. Do you understand? We cannot love each other."   
  
When Eldarion replied, his voice was cool. "Is it not a bit late for that?"   
  
"It matters not," she said. "Time and distance will create rancor between us. We will learn to ignore our hearts until they no longer feel this way."   
  
"You could do that?" When she nodded, he folded his arms across his chest. "You would do that?"   
  
Her chin lifted. "For my sister…yes."   
  
"Clya, this is madness!" A frown flitted across his beautiful features. "I love you! I know it. And I know I could never stop, no matter how strong my desire to spare your sister heartache. There is pain and disappointment in this world, but life goes on. She will learn that and perhaps even be stronger for it."   
  
Elioclya stared at him. "Is that your Elven blood speaking so coldly, my lord?"   
  
"If there is coldness here, my lady, you have only to look to yourself to find it."   
  
"See?" she whispered. "Rancor."   
  
The immense hall had shrunk down to just the two of them. They stood completely silent until both were afraid they would simply give in and run to the other. Eldarion shattered the frozen moment.   
  
"I shall carry the memory of your kiss into battle tomorrow," he told her. "If I we meet again, I command, as the heir to the throne, that you give me one more." She started to protest, but he held up his hand. "It is an order, lady, not a request. If after that kiss, you still wish to throw away our love, I shall not object."   
  
"Eldarion." His name felt wonderful on her tongue as she called him by it for the first time. "I could never be happy if my happiness caused my sister pain."   
  
"And I could never be happy without another of your kisses." He backed up towards the door. "Goodnight. Until we meet again."   
  
When he was gone, Elioclya touched her lips. His warmth lingered there. She prayed that it would never leave.   
  
  
  
It was close to midday before Éowyn rose from bed, although she had been awake for hours. Her face was pressed into the feather pillow Faramir's head had rested upon before he departed to join the troops marching out of the White City. It still smelled of him, clean and masculine.   
  
The memory of their lovemaking the night before remained with her, and would until he returned to her again. It was always powerful, but never quite so much as the nights before they were to be separated. They both acknowledged, but did not mention that there was always a chance it could be their last time together.   
  
Éowyn sat up, her hair trailing along the sheets. She had learned long ago that it was best to find some chore to keep her hands busy while they were apart, or else she would worry herself to death. In the first few years of their marriage, she might have spent the time being angry at the fact that she couldn't accompany him. But with the children and her growing duties as a noblewoman of Gondor, as well as a lot of time and maturity, she had come to understand why Faramir always gently insisted that she remain behind.   
  
It had nearly broken her heart to watch her firstborn ride away with his father that morning. Every inch of her being had compelled her to keep him in Minas Tirith, where he would be safe from harm. And if she felt this way about Elboron, she could assume Faramir felt the same for her.   
  
Once she had dressed and fixed her hair, Éowyn forced herself to leave the bedchamber. It still smelled too much like her husband, and even the sight of his clothes strewn about was too much to take.   
  
She stopped at the door into Edoawen and Elioclya's room and knocked softly. "Girls? Are you awake?"   
  
Another door down the hall opened; her youngest stepped out into the corridor. "Mother."   
  
"Théodan, know you if your sisters are up?"   
  
"Clya is," he replied neutrally.   
  
Éowyn sighed, halfway to exasperation. "But not Awen. Why does that surprise me not?" She knocked on the door again, louder this time. "Edoawen, daughter of Faramir! Do not make me shake you awake!"   
  
"She's not in there, Mother," her son informed her.   
  
"But…you said she's not yet up." She looked at him; he wasn't blinking. It was the silent stare he would give her as a baby, the one that made her know right away that he was not an average child. Cold fear shot down her spine. "Théodan, where is Awen?"   
  
The boy tilted his head to one side. "She's gone."   
  
  
  
To Be Continued 


	6. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: The world and most of the characters don't belong to me, but if you didn't already know that...it's called reality. Connect with it;) 

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay! Life caught up with me. For anyone who's still reading, thank you so much. And thanks for all the feedback from previous chapters. I hope you enjoy this one, too!

* * *

The Power of Two

by Kristen Elizabeth

* * *

"I see dark clouds."

Eldarion glanced up at the pre-dusk sky before turning a sideways frown on his oldest friend. "There are no clouds to speak of."

Slowing his horse down a bit to keep pace with the Prince's, Elboron shook his head. "Not on the horizon. They shadow your face, my friend. Could it be sorrow at being parted from my sister?"

"We have need to speak of that, but now is not the time." Eldarion looked ahead of them to where their fathers led the long line of soldiers westward towards Rohan. "They shall make camp soon."

Elboron ignored him. "In truth, now that last night's drink has cleared from my head, I must admit I was most surprised to hear of your affection for Edoawen. How long have you cast an interested eye on my sister?"

"Friend." Eldarion pulled at his horse's reigns, bringing him to a stop. Elboron followed suit, and the other warriors began filing past them. "There has been a mistake. I do not…"

He was interrupted by the lone cry of a bone-horn, signaling their stop for the night. "At last," Elboron declared. "Will you share your father's fire, my friend?"

"Yes," the Prince replied. "Join us, for am I sure your own father shall be there."

"I thank you for the invitation." Faramir's son tapped his horse's sides, following the half-Elf further up the line of troops. Neither man realized that they galloped right past Edoawen.

* * *

A full day of riding without stop had been exhilarating for the young woman, but also exhausting. As she climbed off her horse, Edoawen winced. Muscles she hadn't even known she possessed ached furiously, and although she'd never been one to linger in a bath, right then she would have liked to submerse herself in hot water for hours.

They had stopped on at the mouth of the River Entwash, so after she tethered her horse to a nearby tree, Edoawen headed for the muddy banks with her half-empty water gourd. Many of the soldiers had the same idea. Keep her eyes lowered, Edoawen wove her way through the men. She had just begun to fill her gourd when she felt a hard tap on her shoulder.

"You there." A few of the men had gathered around her, led by one soldier who smiled at her, baring a mouth that was missing more than a few teeth. "Scrap of lad, isn't he?" he asked the others. "What's your name, boy?"

Edoawen cleared her throat, making her voice as deep as possible. "Baramer," she replied, shooting off the first male name that came to her mind. "Of Gondor," she added for good measure.

"Not much of a title," the toothless man snickered.

"And what might your title be?" she challenged.

The man's smile fell a bit. "Never been taught respect for your elders, have you?"

"Elders, yes." Edoawen tried to stop herself, but her tongue was too far out of control. "Inferiors, no."

"Inferiors!" The men bristled. "We shall see who's inferior, boy." The man drew his sword. It was the first time anyone other than her brother had unsheathed his weapon in front of her. But from the playful sparring matches of her childhood, she knew what to do.

She pulled her own sword from its protective scabbard and pointed it at her adversary. "A wise man does not challenge an unknown opponent."

The man gave no answer. He simply charged full ahead and Edoawen had to think quickly in order to sidestep the blade in time. It had come dangerously close to her ribcage. Her next move would have to be brilliant in order to regain the upper hand.

But she never got to make the next move, because someone grabbed her from behind and wrestled her sword away from her.

"Unhand me!" she ordered her faceless attacker. With her elbow, she jabbed his stomach as hard as possible and waited until his grip let up before spinning around and slamming her fist into his mouth.

She realized, a moment too late, that the man was none other than Aethor of Rohan. Immediately, she dropped her chin to her chest, lowering her face to avoid recognition. Peeking up through her lashes, she watched him rub his jaw.

"I demand to know what started this brawl," he thundered.

"My lord," the toothless man said, dropping to one knee. "Begging your pardon, but the boy were the one to start it."

Almost overcome by righteous fury at this, Edoawen very nearly looked straight up at Aethor, but managed to catch herself in time.

"Is this true, boy?" His eyes were on her and she squirmed ever so slightly. "Answer me."

"Nay…" Lowering her voice, she gritted her teeth to force out, "…my lord."

"But this is your sword." Aethor turned the weapon over in his hands. "Fine quality. Did it belong to your father?" She nodded. "Just how many years are you, lad?"

The toothless man grinned. "Fresh milk that one, my lord. Likely the last woman's legs he been between were his mother's."

All around her, men roared with laughter and Edoawen could feel her cheeks burning.

Aethor raised his hand, silencing the small crowd. Changing his grip on the sword to the blade, rather than the hilt, he handed the weapon back to her. "Come. Prove yourself to these men, else endure their derision for the entirety of our campaign." He took a few steps back and withdrew his own sword. "And this time…guard your back."

Edoawen silently cursed whichever of the fates had it in for her.

As they sparred, Aethor was surprised to find that the scrap of a lad was a hell of a swordsman. Still a bit green around the ears, but with the proper seasoning, he could be a tremendous asset on the battlefield. Whatever move he made, the boy countered with agility and quick wit. Aethor chuckled to himself. He was almost enjoying this.

Just then, the broad side of the boy's sword connected with his side and he doubled over from the force of it. The boy took the opportunity to charge him, but Aethor reacted just in time to regain the upper hand by flipping the boy underneath him and pinning him to the ground.

Panting for breath, Aethor looked down at the figure beneath him. Although half-hidden by a Gondorian helmet, he could see wisps of blonde hair framing pink cheeks. But it was the eyes…the eyes that had stared at him with such contempt on the only two occasions that they'd spoken…that gave away the boy's identity.

It was Princess Edoawen lying beneath him. And that single thought was enough to prompt him into instant arousal.

He pushed himself up and away from her slender, but soft body, grateful for the fact that his tunic covered him to his thighs. Clearing his throat, Aethor addressed the men. "The boy is a worthy opponent. Leave him in peace lest you wish to face my blade."

Shoving his sword back into its sheath, Aethor stalked away from the river as fast as possible. A million thoughts plagued him, half of which were angry tirades against foolish, impulsive women. His first instinct was to locate the girl's father and let him deal with the situation, but something told him to keep her secret to himself for the time being. Whatever her reasons for being there, she was skilled with a sword, and she might even prove herself a good warrior.

That is, if she ever saw true battle. It was his solemn pledge that she never would.

* * *

"Have you sent a rider to Emyn Arnen?" The Queen held Éowyn's hand between her cool palms. "Perhaps she set off for home."

The distraught woman nodded. "I have. He has not returned as of yet. But in my heart…I fear something is the matter. My daughter did not return home."

"We don't know that yet, Mother." Elioclya knelt next to her mother's chair. "Awen so loves to worry us all. I can picture her in front of the hearth at this moment, anticipating our panicked arrival." She tried to smile. "We should let her wait, and serve her right."

Éowyn stood abruptly. "I cannot bear this waiting. My husband and son off to battle and my daughter…disappeared." She pressed a pale hand to her mouth. "Oh, what if she lies injured somewhere? What if she…"

Arwen stopped her. "You must rest. Though you think you cannot, you must." She reached for a goblet from a tray a servant had brought in at her request. "Here. Drink."

"I will not be put down by your herbs," Éowyn snapped.

The Queen arched a perfect eyebrow. "And what would your lord and husband say were he here?"

"He would wish that you would rest, Mother," Elioclya reminded her. "Father would not allow you to weaken yourself."

Something in her daughter's voice touched the rational thoughts that she had pushed away in favor of blind terror upon a fruitless search of the entire city for any trace of Edoawen. After what seemed a lifetime, Éowyn gave in and took the goblet from Arwen. "You must wake me if there is any news…any news at all. Swear to me."

"I swear it," the Elven woman replied.

The draught took effect within moments and soon Éowyn slept deeply. Arwen used the opportunity and addressed Elioclya as she settled the woven sheets around her mother's body.

"Dear child," the Queen began. "Might I have a word with you?"

"Of course, your majesty." She curtsied briefly. "Speak of whatever you wish."

"You are worried for your sister, but there is more to your melancholy. I can feel it."

Elioclya froze halfway across the room to fetch another cover for her mother's bed. "I am sorry, my Queen. 'Tis true my mind is occupied, but with thoughts of sister's whereabouts and well-being. Nothing more."

The lie rolled off her tongue, but Arwen wasn't falling for it. "You have spoken to my son, have you not?"

"Many times, majesty. We have grown up together and are friends."

Eldarion's mother sighed and folded her hands patiently in front of her. "Think you that I do not know my son's heart? I have seen him look at you with love from the moment he blossomed into manhood. And I have watched your thoughts of him turn from brotherly to amorous. And believe me, child, I could not be happier for it."

The young girl's lower lip trembled. "Truly, my lady?"

"Truly." The beautiful Elf smiled. "There are qualities within you that my people possessed. I see them in my son as well, which is perhaps why I favor you so as a match for him."

"But my sister…"

"Your sister, and I say this with affection only, favors Rohan. Her spirit would ne'er be happy were it tied to Eldarion's. One or both of them would suffer for the union. She will find her perfect match, as you have found yours. Do not deny her that…or deny yourself what your heart so plainly desires."

For a moment, Elioclya allowed the Queen's words to absolve her of all guilt. In that moment, she realized that her happiness could only ever come from love for and a life with Eldarion. But almost as soon as the warm feeling swept through her, it passed, and all she was left with was an image of her twin's distraught face upon finding her in an embrace with the Prince.

"Thank you, your majesty," she murmured, curtsying again. "To be in favor with the Queen is the highest of all honors. Yet I am sorry to say…I feel not for your son what you would imagine for us." She gathered up her skirts. "I shall return to sit at my mother's side."

Arwen called out to her, but Elioclya was too far gone to respond, even to a royal decree. As she ran for her chamber, fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. It was her fault that Edoawen had run away. And if anything were to happen to her twin, she would carry the burden of it for the rest of her days. To be happy with Eldarion would be the worst of all betrayals.

So, it would never be, she told herself. Never.

* * *

Hunger gnawed at Edoawen's stomach. Of all the foolish things she'd done in the past day, forgetting to bring her own food stocks had to be the most unwise one. All she had was her water gourd, which she'd long since emptied. It would be an easy task to refill it at the river, but the possibility of another encounter with Aethor kept her in her tent, determined to starve to death before she would allow him to best her again.

At least he hadn't discovered her identity. She comforted herself with that thought. He had treated her as he would any other soldier. Edoawen smiled in spite of herself; surely it wasn't hard to trick such a bull-headed man. Intelligence did not exactly run deep in his blood. He had too much muscle for that.

Muscles. Yes, he did have those. They'd covered every inch of her body as he'd held her down to the ground. A tiny shiver ran down her spine at the memory. She'd never been surrounded by so much man, nor come so close to such power. Even the scent of him had been purely masculine. And, much to her self-disgust, she had not hated it.

"Stop," she ordered herself. "Had he half the sense of a normal man, he might be worth a second glance. As he does not, he is not." Edoawen paused. "He is not Eldarion."

Even just thinking his name, much less saying it out loud, caused her instantaneous pain. How could her life have seemed so perfect at one moment, yet completely shattered the next? And how could she have been so foolish to believe that Eldarion, the most beautiful man in the world, could possibly care about a wild woman such as she? Especially when compared to her twin.

Edoawen beat the ground with one fist. She could censure Aethor, lord of fools, as much as she liked, but she was the one who had been tricked. And she was the one who had been made the true fool.

The flap of her tent rustled and her hand flew to her sword's hilt. When it lifted and opened, Edoawen withdrew half the blade.

"Who goes there?" she demanded, barely remembering to drop her voice as she pulled on her helmet. "State your name and purpose."

"Aethor of Rohan," the man who had been plaguing her thoughts announced as he ducked to enter the tent. "Here to speak to Princess Edoawen of Ithilien."

Her faced paled as her stomach flipped. "I am sorry, but you seem to be lost, my lord. There is no princess here."

Aethor squatted in front of her and shook his head. "Let us not play games, princess." Before she could stop him, he reached out and tugged at her helmet. Her long blonde braid fell out over her shoulder. "Did you think I was fool enough to not notice it was a woman I felled earlier?"

"Honestly." She lifted her chin. "Aye."

He stared at her for a moment before he started to laugh. "By Valar, I have been cursed. You are the most incorrigible woman ever to walk this world!"

Edoawen scooted back a bit towards the far end of the tent to escape his presence. "Have you told my father?"

"I have not," he replied. "Should I?"

"No!" She shot out an arm and grabbed his. "Please, no. It would bring him shame."

Aethor let her hand linger there. "It should not. You are excellent with a sword; surely that would make a father proud."

"Of his son, perhaps, but not, I think, of his daughter."

"Perhaps," he mused. Staring her in the eye, he covered her hand with his. "As for myself, princess, I care not. You fight better than most of the men gathered here. It matters not that you possess woman's parts." His lips curled up in a mischievous grin. "Although they are very well-formed woman's parts."

Edoawen's eyes narrowed and she threw off his hand. "How dare you! Only a vulgar, boorish heathen of a man would have the audacity to…"

"To what? Enjoy a woman's parts?" Aethor laughed as her eyes flew open, engarged.. "Then I am all and more, princess."

"I despise you!" she hissed.

"I cannot say I find you pleasant either."

"Leave my tent at once!" Edoawen ordered. When he remained squatted in front of her, smirking, her temper flared and she pushed at him. "Leave!"

As he fell backwards, Aethor grabbed her hand and pulled her with him. She landed on top of his hard body, knocking the wind out of them both for a brief moment. When she recovered, she looked down at the man beneath her.

She could call him a fool, but she could not find fault with his looks.

"Princess," he murmured. He ran one hand down her spine, and cupped the small of her back, pressing them even closer.

When she looked back at the event, she could not recall who kissed whom first. As it turned out, it didn't matter. The kiss burned so hot that neither one of them were blameless in it. Every inch of her skin felt set to flame by his tongue seeking out hers, say nothing for the heat at the center of her body. His hands slid back up her body and tangled in her loose braid, but his mouth never left hers. Not even when he rolled them over and came to rest over her.

It was wanton and wonderful and she was so entirely caught up in the passion of the moment that she let a single word slip out on a moan of pleasure when his lips began trailing down the length of her throat.

"Eldarion…"

Aethor froze. As soon as his mouth stopped its delicious movements, Edoawen clapped a hand to her mouth. Even though an apology and explanation was due, she could not say the words. Not even when he sat up and moved away from her.

She lifted herself up on her elbows. "Please, my lord," she said, running her tongue over her swollen lips. "Do not reveal me to my father."

Aethor shook his head and cursed under his breath, muttering words Edoawen had never even imagined. He glanced back at her, as if unable to reconcile what had just happened between them. Then, without a word in reply or acknowledgment, he stood and disappeared through the tent's flap, leaving no sign behind that he had even been there.

Except for the memory of his kiss. It was something that, no matter how hard she tried as she fell into a fitful, hungry sleep, Edoawen could not forget.

* * *

To Be Continued 


End file.
